


Base of Fire

by vodkabite



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Morality, F/F, Gaslighting, Hordak and Horde Prime Are Not Clones, Horde Adora (She-Ra), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magicats (She-Ra), Manipulation, Marriage of Convenience, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Political Alliances, Politics, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Princess Catra (She-Ra), Shadow Weaver Is Maskless, Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)'s A+ Parenting, Slow Burn, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, War, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26331904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkabite/pseuds/vodkabite
Summary: After decades of brutal war, a ravaged Etheria is nearing the brink of collapse. To salvage what is left, Lord Hordak invokes an Old Etherian tradition: an arranged marriage between the Horde's chosen champion and a member of the Princess Alliance.If only things were that simple.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 134
Kudos: 455
Collections: Shera





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me strolling into a new fandom like,  
> 
> 
> I recently watched She-Ra (I'm late, I know) and just fell head over heels with it. Catradora is the friends to enemies to lovers wlw ship I had been waiting years for. That being said, I'm surprised at the lack of Horde Adora fics, and especially Princess Catra fics since it was a popular theory that she was the lost Fire/Magicat princess back in the day. So, I figured I'd throw my hat in the ring. 
> 
> Catch me on [Tumblr](https://vodkabite.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/vodkabite1).

As they pass through, Adora takes note: the civilians of Brightmoon are scared of the Horde banners. Most retreat into their humble little homes, but others, the more brazen ones, stand on either side of the road, watching their emblem flutter in the breeze. Shadow Weaver pays no mind to them, more interested in reading her book than to pass the slightest of glances at the townsfolk. When they arrive, a wall of guards in white armor surround the courtyard, gripping their battle staffs tightly at the sight of the enemy carriage. Adora ignores them, focusing her attention on the two figures waiting for them in the center of the square. 

From what she knew of Brightmoon and their customs, Adora did not expect to be greeted by the queen and her consort. Their expressions, grim. Shadow Weaver, on the other hand, is pleased at the frosty welcome. “Queen Angella, Micah. Shame we couldn’t meet under more amicable circumstances.” 

Angella shows no reaction to her. “You are here to establish a treaty between the Horde and the Alliance.” 

Micah’s brows furrow, words strained. “By an arranged marriage.” 

Shadow Weaver shrugs. “It wasn’t my suggestion,” she keeps eye contact with Micah, “but Lord Hordak believes that this decades long war has gone on too long. Per custom, before the war, this was the best way to make amends between kingdoms.” 

Angella straightens. “Yes. Hordak mentioned that you wish to get this started right away.” She exchanges glances with Micah. “Come, you all must be tired from the trip.” 

After barking a few commands to her guards, Angella gestures for her esteemed guests to follow inside. Adora right behind her, then Shadow Weaver, with Micah rounding out the rear, hands balled tightly into fists at his sides. Much like the outside, the inside of the castle is nicely colored in pastel hues of yellow, pink, and purple, far brighter than anything back in the Fright Zone. And it is nauseating. Though, Adora does admire the bustle of servants throughout the halls and the faint burbling of waterfalls nearby, as she’s taken to a cozy room one flight up. 

Adora sits at the table in the middle as the queen and her consort ask for her patience in waiting for the rest of her would-be suitors to arrive. When the doors close, Adora lets out a breath and sighs. The room is warm and well lit, but has an abnormally large collection of throw pillows with very little furnishing, beyond the table and a few chairs. Needing to stretch, Adora gets up and walks to the window on the farthest side of the room and peers down at the courtyard below. Rogelio and Kyle milling about in front of the carriage. 

“Is this even necessary?” 

Shadow Weaver glances at her. “Despite what Hordak thinks, not everything needs to be handled with brute strength.” 

“Sure would make taking over Brightmoon far easier.” 

Shadow Weaver flips another page of her book. “No argument there.” 

Adora returns to the table and rests a cheek against her palm. Bored.  _ If this is how the Rebellion conducts business, then no wonder they were failing so miserably. _

Shadow Weaver stands to place a hand on Adora’s shoulder. “If you are to be the best commander the Horde has ever seen, then you must learn a little something called diplomacy, and master it.” 

Adora crosses her arms and huffs. Shadow Weaver moves to look out the window herself, “Besides, you can never tell how an invasion will go. We may have the ammunition, but they have the magical power that can turn the tide very quickly.” 

A knock sounds on the heavy, golden door, and Adora calls out to invite the visitors in. 

Queen Angella and King Micah enter with a young woman—probably two years older than Adora—with creamy-blonde hair and a lei of flowers around her neck. She wears a pink sundress with a green, long sleeved shawl that haphazardly hangs off her shoulders. She is tall, and despite her obvious apprehension towards being in a room alone with the Force Captain and her guardian, she holds her head up higher. Her flower tiara bright against her tanned skin. 

Princess Perfuma of Plumeria. 

Perfuma sits anxiously across from Adora as Angella and Micah watch from the side. From what Adora knows of the flower princess, her ability to grow and control plants has been quite the nuisance to their troops on land. Especially wherever there is a source of vegetation she can draw from. She’s strong, incredibly so, rumors have been circulating around the barracks that a golem made entirely out of vines and plants decimated their control over a tower along the Singing River. 

Perfuma can barely keep herself from shrinking underneath their scrutiny, she smiles, but it’s strained. 

This isn’t going to work, not with everyone here. 

“Would you all kindly leave, so Perfuma and I can get to know one another privately?” Adora sweeps her gaze across the queen, the king, and her advisor. “All of you.” 

Micah stiffens, opening his mouth in protest when Shadow Weaver holds up a hand and concedes. “That would be best; I assume a tour of the castle is in order if we are to stay here for the next foreseeable week.” 

Micah frowns, and Angella as well. But she steels herself and agrees that if the Horde were going to choose a suitable betrothed for their champion, they needed privacy. They leave immediately, and once the door closes behind them, Adora turns her attention to Perfuma. Dainty and pretty with a lily in her hair. 

To be honest, it’s a wonder why Perfuma hasn’t married yet. Adora imagines she would make a good choice for their arrangement, but Perfuma looks utterly miserable. “Thank you for taking the time to consider me. It’s not every day a princess gets to meet someone as renowned as you.” 

“Likewise. You are as beautiful as the rumors back in the Fright Zone say.” 

Perfuma tries for a smile. “If you were to choose me… as your bride, we can bring peace back to all of Etheria and heal the land.” She falters then, green eyes softening. “Plumeria has suffered greatly, and any chance there is at repairing that damage that has been done, I will take it.” 

Adora studies her: the sorrow in her eyes, the pleading tone of her voice as she spoke. She would make a strong ally, but regardless of how much power she has, she’d be too resistant to change. To compromise. 

Adora doesn’t want to marry anyone, much less a princess, but if she had to pick a bride, it’d be the one who’d pose the least struggle. 

She sits back. “I would expect nothing less.” 

Perfuma drops her eyes again, if she could, she’d hold herself tighter. “I know of the circumstances surrounding this arrangement, and what is expected of me should you choose me; I’d fulfill every obligation asked of me.” 

Adora taps her fingers along the table. “I expect nothing less.” How unfortunate. “Thank you, Perfuma. I have gathered all I need to know from this meeting to make a decision.” 

Her creamy-blonde eyebrows jump in surprise, but she gets up at once. “Yes, okay.” 

Perfuma leaves quickly, footsteps heavy as she slips out the door. Adora suspects she’ll start running as soon as she rounds the corner, away from wandering eyes. Queen Angella, Micah, and Shadow Weaver return shortly after 

Angella narrows her eyes. “That was short.” 

“Mmmh.” Adora affirms, her shoulders tensing and then relaxing in a bid to stave off her growing irritation. “She wasn’t the right one—send in the next princess.” 

After a short moment, a copper-skinned woman with a striking full head of ocean blue hair sits across from her: Princess Mermista of Salineas. 

Geographically, she is the best choice for the access Salineas provides to the rest of Etheria alone. But gossip runs rampant, and Adora, through the grapevine, knows that Mermista has been reluctant to rule since taking over in her father’s place. Needing help from the other kingdoms in the Princess Alliance to keep her own afloat, in exchange for a considerable slash in prices of exported goods. 

She is looked quite unfavorably in the eyes of Salineas’ noble class as a result. Her inability to fix the Sea Gate in a timely manner has also done nothing to assuage the number of citizens running for safety to the other kingdoms. Granted, her troops have been spread thin; forced to send a regiment to defenseless Plumeria and a fleet of warships to the Kingdom of Snows. 

She’s also somewhat involved with a serial arsonist. 

“Ughhh—” 

Adora pinches the bridge of her nose and waves a hand. “Next!” 

Queen Angella and Micah aren’t pleased. Neither is Shadow Weaver, not that Adora cares too much; the sorceress is never pleased unless there’s a drink in her hand. 

“All that’s left is Frosta, but she is ten, turning eleven later this year.” 

Adora frowns. “Clearly, I wouldn’t take her, but I need to marry someone.” 

Micah crosses his arms. “You are not marrying Glimmer.” 

Shadow Weaver closes her book finally. “Micah, your daughter is very well the key to securing the end of this war. Hasn’t it gone on long enough?” 

His eyes flicker. “She’s too young!” 

“And yet, for being sixteen, you saw it fit to send her out onto the front lines.” They have nothing to say. “Marriage for little Glimmer is the least of her worries, or do you actually want to continue this war and risk the chances of her ever coming back home? Alive?” 

Angella casts a sharp look at Shadow Weaver while Adora watches them argue, mainly Micah who haughtily refuses any sense of rationality, and Shadow Weaver who can’t help but kick a dog at its weakest when given the opportunity. 

Angella turns to Adora. “Per the arrangement: the wedding is scheduled to be held ten days from now once a decision is made, correct?” 

She nods, brow raised.  _ She can’t be serious. _

“Regardless of the circumstances surrounding this arrangement, and who the chosen bride will be, I only ask that you give it more time.” 

Adora drums her fingers on the table. The adults all look to her and after a moment of silence, of waiting with bated breath, she agrees. Face tightening. 

“Where’s Glimmer?” 

Micah glances at Angella. “She’s at the training grounds with her friend. I’ll have one of the guards—” 

“Yes. Thank you.” The brightly lit room and its warm walls are grating on Adora’s nerves. “The sooner we get through this, the easier it will be for the both of you to decide if your daughter is old enough to kill, but too young to marry.” 

Angella gives her a pointed look, far more restrained than her husband. But says nothing, barking at one of the guards outside the door to find her daughter. 

Adora has never personally spoken to the Princess of Brightmoon; leading a squadron of soldiers to stomp out the rebel insurgency doesn’t provide much time to exchange pleasantries on the battlefield. Not that she hadn’t heard of the princess before. Many battle reports from their outposts had made mentions of their soldiers getting blasted in the face with a fist full of sparkles. Recalling later on in the infirmary, battered and bandaged, of a princess zipping around their post like a child on a sugar rush. That she went by  _ Commander Glimmer. _

A vein throbs in the center of her forehead, and with as much tact as she can muster, quietly pushes it down until it quells. From her corner, Shadow Weaver chuckles beneath her veil mask, but doesn’t speak. If this is diplomacy, Adora now understands why Hordak was always so keen on using force. 

Soon there is a knock on the door and Princess Glimmer makes her long-awaited appearance. 

While the other princesses had enough sense to bow, Glimmer outright refuses. Holding her head high and her shoulders back suggests the bearing of someone proud and unfazed by the circumstances surrounding them. That Brightmoon arrogance, Shadow Weaver made mention of, well into effect. Yet, for all that bravado she is a short little thing—top of her head barely reaching Adora’s chin, at five feet and three inches—with sparkly pink-purple hair and a pair of defiant eyes that reveal her to be more like her father than her mother. 

With Glimmer sitting across from Adora, Angella and Micah are more than unwilling to leave them alone. Now that their daughter was directly in the Horde’s crosshairs. Adora rolls her eyes; not like they could do anything behind enemy lines. Again, she asks for privacy, but it takes another cutting barb from Shadow Weaver for them, specifically Micah, to exit. 

The atmosphere in the room thickens. Glimmer laces her fingers together in her white fingerless gloves, prim and proper. Her brows furrowed determinedly, as if she had a choice in the matter. 

Adora doesn’t. 

No one does. 

“I haven’t seen you since Devlan.” Adora starts. “That poor village, barely worth a thing to either of us, and yet, you left it a wreck with your magic.” 

Glimmer bites back a scowl. She sits a little straighter, holds her chin a little higher, hands clasped together tightly on the table in front of her. Resisting the urge to reach over and punch Adora with a fist full of sparkles. Adora refrains from lobbing another dig; Glimmer’s temper is as short as she is. “If it’s all the same with you, Force Captain, I’d like to focus on the task at hand.” 

Adora nods. “Very well then, I’m sure you understand the reason why I’m here and why the fate of this war hinges on whether or not I marry a princess.” 

“Of course, I know. Everyone knows. Lord Hordak sent a letter regarding this weeks ago.” Glimmer crosses her arms, insulted. “The marriage between a member of the Princess Alliance and the Horde’s chosen one will bridge the gap between both parties, the marriage contract serving as a treaty.” 

"Arranged marriages are an old tradition among Etherian royalty, now defunct, long before the war started. It only seemed right to adhere to custom—it was also customary for royals to wage their own wars if they felt slighted; I believe King Robert of Brightmoon threatened to level Scorpion Hill over the loss of his betrothed.” 

“I don’t need the history lesson, Captain.” 

“So what are we doing here, then?” 

Glimmer jerks. “I understand there’s a lot riding on this, I want the war to end just as much as everyone else, but why does it have to be me? There are other princesses to choose from, to marry. Why me?” 

“Because you are the best candidate.” Adora sighs. “I don’t want to marry anyone either, much less a princess, and certainly not you, but strategically, a marriage with you holds more weight than it would with the others.” 

She continues, “This is supposed to be a mutually beneficial partnership. How well do you think things will go over if I married Perfuma, who let her kingdom rot because she refused to do what needed to be done and is only  _ now  _ willing to do something after the fact; or Mermista, who’s reluctance to lead has sent many of Salineas’ citizens running for the hills while those that have stayed are at the mercy of support from neighboring kingdoms.” 

“It’s not their fault, the Horde has played a substantial role in the problems they face with their kingdoms!” 

“Yes, but it takes two to make a war; one on its own is a victory march.” Adora taps her fingers on the table, tired. ”And we both know, neither of us are any closer to winning than when we first started.” 

Glimmer excuses herself and the meeting is cut short. Angella and Micah stand crestfallen in the corridor, while Shadow Weaver spares a quick glance at Adora before walking away. Probably to her guestroom. Angella apologizes for Glimmer’s behavior, not that she truly means to other than to save face. 

Nevertheless, Adora waves it off. Deciding that she needed to get to know her bride-to-be, and if these emotional outbursts were a common thing, then for the greater good of Etheria she’ll grit her teeth and begrudgingly accept them as is. 

All she needed was for Glimmer to say yes—one of the few stipulations proposed by the Rebellion, verbal and written consent. 

After some vague instructions from a stern looking guard twice her height, Adora finds her way outside where she follows the soft whistling of arrows and the telltale grunting of soldiers at work. Behind the southernmost curtain wall is where she discovers a group of young position-less men and women doing a series of laborious exercises. They’re slow, sweating easily; a bunch of trainees meant to be the new crop of castle guards. 

Some of the trainees along the backline start to struggle a bit, two of them collapse to the ground in exhaustion. Doesn’t help that the more experienced guards sitting around the square on crates, and in front of what Adora can only assume to be their barracks, start cheering and jeering at them to get up and continue. A sight that isn’t unlike what she usually saw at the Fright Zone. All that’s missing is a superior officer berating them for their uselessness. 

A movement catches her eye above. Looking up, Adora spots a figure lounging about on one of the barracks’ roofs. It’s too far to make them out other than a vague shape shrouded beneath the curtain wall’s shadow. 

Turning her attention away, she moves further away from the barracks to find Glimmer sitting off to the side while her friend launches arrows at a target. He manages to embed four out of six arrows into the target’s torso. Ruining the Horde symbol painted on the breastplate. 

She stares at him like he hung the sun in the sky. 

Adora is half tempted to not interrupt. 

“Glimmer. I was told I’d find you here.” She holds out her arm. “Care to show me around the castle?” 

Glimmer doesn’t bother hiding her reluctance and distaste, annoyed at the intrusion, but agrees all the same. 

Travelling several paces ahead, Glimmer (along with her friend who Adora learns is hilariously named Bow), guides Adora from the garden. Making their way around the castle grounds as Glimmer narrates the history of Brightmoon. Adora, for her part, finds it interesting, having always been fascinated by the tall tales of sorcerers and living gods ever since she was a child. 

And to Glimmer’s credit, she eventually schools her distrust and innate hate into something more visually pleasing. Though that doesn’t stop her from staring daggers into the side of Adora’s head when she thinks no one’s looking. 

They come to a momentary stop at a clifftop where, for centuries, Brightmoon’s rulers have held their wedding and coronation ceremonies. It is a wide-open space overlooking the mouth of the Singing River below, and in the horizon stands the endlessness of the Whispering Woods, the base of the water fountain has images of the first ruler of Brightmoon carved into its surface. 

But what Adora notices first is a little girl with dark blue hair freezing the fountain’s water to make ice sculptures. 

The girl creates a sculpture of a winged horse standing on its hind legs before turning around with a bright smile, barreling into Glimmer. “Look, I made a pegasus! Your favorite!” 

Glimmer gently pushes the girl back. “I know, thank you.” She turns to Adora. “Frosta, this is Force Captain Adora.” 

Frosta watches Adora with sharp eyes, staring down at the badge she wears bearing the Horde’s symbol proudly with revulsion. Ah, Princess—no,  _ Queen  _ Frosta of the Kingdom of Snows. Adora remembers when she heard the news of the former queen’s death up in the Northern Reach, shocked to death by a random soldier's stun baton. A lethal charge. A lucky shot. 

They celebrated it. Disappointment over their failed mission to capture territory and establish an outpost up in the north mattered little in the face of one less rebel leader. 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Force Captain.” Frosta says in a voice far too old for her mouth. Eyes glazing over with a light sheen of what can only be tears. 

Adora puts on a sweet smile. “Please, call me Adora.” 

Frosta narrows her eyes. “I’d rather not.” 

Adora isn’t the one who killed her mother but to Frosta she might as well have. Poor thing. Such is life during war, there will always be casualties. 

“Frosta, why don’t you go see if Netossa and Spinnerella are here? Maybe they’ll play a game of ice-ball with you?” Glimmer suggests, spinning the young girl around and pushing her towards the castle. “I’ll catch up later.” 

Frosta slinks off, giving them a dark look. Glimmer watches her go with a twinge of sadness, while Bow awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck. “We’re sorry for Frosta, she’s—” 

“Blunt?” Adora shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t mind. I’d rather someone be honest with me than tell me lies.” 

Glimmer nods. “Well that’s something we can all agree on.” 

They continue the tour. And after viewing their seventh garden, out of a total of fifteen, and a daunting hedge maze, Adora is relieved to be shown something with a little less green. The stables. Much like the ones at the Fright Zone and their outposts, Brightmoon’s stables are situated on four acres of paved stones with numerous stalls lined from end to end. Only difference is that these horses varied in size and musculature, having a multipurpose use beyond hard labor. Unlike the Horde’s strong and sturdy workhorses. 

It’s a long walk from the entrance, but Adora is happy for the trek, it gives her more time to watch the horses being trotted around in their pen. 

Glimmer stops to speak to one of the stablemen about touring the premises, but Adora is already transfixed by one of the horses being led out of their stall. A rose-grey desert horse with a distinguished white stripe running down the center of its wedge-shaped head, just short of its snout. Its rider brings it to a smooth trot along the pen’s perimeter before steadily leading it into a full run. Mane flowing beautifully in the wind. 

“That’s Equuleus, Old Etherian for ‘little horse’,” Bow says coming up alongside her, “he’s Brightmoon’s prized thoroughbred and the best racehorse in all the land.” 

“I didn’t think the alliance made time for fun, much less horse races, during wartime.” 

Bow grins, it's infectious. “Yeah, well, having fun where you can is a good morale booster; plus, it’s also a lot of fun seeing Perfuma lose at the track.” 

Adora doesn’t respond, just nods her head in affirmation when Glimmer finishes talking to the stablemaster about taking the horses out of the pen for a ride into the Whispering Woods sometime this week, weather permitting. 

“Where are the other princesses? I assumed the Alliance would have more.” 

Glimmer blinks. “I thought the Horde and all its sophistication would know all about them?” 

Adora rolls her eyes. “We keep an eye on the ones that matter, those that have a runestone connection and are a thorn in our side.” 

Glimmer sneers but Bow steps into the fray. ”The Alliance accepts everyone, regardless if they have a runestone or not.” 

“They just have to be opposed to the Horde.” Glimmer mutters. 

“Yeah, well, even with how big Etheria is, there weren’t too many who wanted to join.” Bow says, a little serious. “We tried recruiting Princess Entrapta of Dryl, but her kingdom was already under Horde control. 

And what an excellent acquisition that was. Were it not for Adora’s quick thinking to capitalize on the Horde’s usage of spies, they would have never had the pleasure of securing the most brilliant inventor in Etheria. Not that it was hard to sway the violet-haired princess, one mention of First Ones tech and she was theirs instantly. 

They near the barracks again, except this time a more experienced set of soldiers take to the square in front, exchanging grapples and holds while the rookies look on from the sides. Bow continues: “Sweet Bee, Prince Peekablue, and the Star Sisters refused to break their neutrality; Frosta and Catra are the only ones who are allowed to sit in on meetings, but with heavy restrictions.” 

“Who’s Catra?” 

“Princess Catra of Halfmoon.” 

“Hmm.” A princess of a kingdom her cadet training failed to make mention of? Adora needs to meet her. “Will Halfmoon be throwing their hat in the ring?” 

Glimmer scoffs. “Doubt it. But you’re welcome to try; oh, and fair warning, she has a habit of antagonizing others for fun.” 

When they reach the barracks’ square, the same figure from before is perched on a stack of crates. Up close, her attire is strange, something Adora has never seen before. Not that she has much time to scrutinize it with those heterochromatic eyes—one yellow, one blue—refusing to let her go. 

“So,” her voice is sharp, more mocking than teasing, “when’s the wedding?” 

“Ten days from now.” Glimmer says. 

Catra’s ears twitch. “Enough time for the rookies to be prepared by then.” 

She hops down from her perch; at her full height she is tall, closing in at barely being three inches shorter than Adora. But Adora has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. Other than Frosta,  _ everyone  _ is taller than Glimmer. “I’m still primed to take the prize again this year, but who knows? I hear the tournament might bring some fresh faces this year.” 

Adora studies her. “You help train Brightmoon’s guards, despite your kingdom’s restrictions on any and all military involvement.” 

“I do it as a personal favor to Sparkles and the queen; they’re good at barking orders and organizing troops, but relying purely on magic to protect their home is a rookie mistake.” 

Glimmer huffs with an indignant  _ hey! _ but it falls on deaf ears. 

“Sounds like you’re playing both sides of the fence, personally.” 

Catra nonchalantly shrugs. “Probably. But the best position to have in a fight isn’t in picking a side, or even having one altogether, it’s knowing where to stand and when.” 

Adora tilts her head. “And you chose to stand with the Rebellion.” 

“Obviously. What could the Horde have offered me?” 

Adora stays quiet, letting herself get pulled away by an anxious Bow and a hard-looking Glimmer. Citing that they had to finish the castle interior portion of the tour before lunch. 

Adora turns her head to see Catra waving, tail upright and curled at the end. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain.” There’s a wink, and she itches to return the favor. Shame the Horde couldn’t find a use for Halfmoon. 

The rest of the tour passes by in a blur before concluding in the dining hall where the queen and her consort are already seated. Adora takes her place in an empty chair at the table’s edge beside Bow, truly the safest place for her to be. Slowly, the other princesses join them, but Catra isn’t among them. Servants dressed in white and lavender roll out trays of food on carts, beginning with a light appetizer and pitchers of lemonade. 

A glass filled with ice cubes is placed in front of Adora when Angella speaks. “I hope you enjoyed the tour, Adora.” 

She nods. “Yes, thank you.” 

By nightfall, the contract still hasn’t been signed. 


	2. Chapter 2

The second day of Adora’s stay is met with decidedly less hostility than the first. The morning dawns clear and warm, there is a blissfulness in the air underlain with a hint of electricity; Adora muses, the gravity of the situation having finally sunk into her gracious hosts’ heads. Enough that, in a show of goodwill, Adora is invited to sit in on a meeting with the other princesses. “A precursor,” the guard had said, shadow looming over her, “of what is to come.” 

Predictably, the other princesses don’t take kindly to her presence. Her arrival to the laughably and misleadingly titled “War Room” is met with disdainful whispers and sniggers. Frosta sneers from across the table; Perfuma, once again, tries for a smile but is incapable; Mermista loudly voices her contempt with a groan; Castaspella sits rigidly beside the queen; the ones known as Spinnerella and Netossa—not princesses but close allies—stare right through; Glimmer mimics her mother’s stern regality to poor results; and lastly, Bow, gives a half-hearted closed-lipped smile. The queen herself, tall and suspicious, is stern, but cordial. 

The only one unfazed is Catra. 

Slouched in her seat, upper body halfway down, arms crossed over her chest, she isn’t excited to be here either. Adora finds comfort in that. Making mental note that while all the chairs were bare, save for the queen’s, of course, Catra’s has a crudely drawn pawprint scratched into an armrest. 

The meeting starts: the princesses talk among themselves mostly. Reformation this, policies that. Taking great strides to voice their concerns, demands, opinions. Glowering at Adora whenever anything remotely pertaining to the Horde is mentioned. Each one another nail they hammer down to further validate their barely restrained dislike. Adora takes it all in stride, hands clasped together neatly in her lap as she listens to the seemingly endless list of her faults, the Horde’s faults. Displaced denizens, torn villages, inhabitable lands—noise. 

It’s all noise. 

Adora rolls her eyes. Already above the pettiness of royals. Made worse by Glimmer, the damn chatterbox, spending most of the time speaking, generally out of turn. When on the cusp of an argument, she stands, demanding attention and subservience. Adora struggles not to laugh at the obvious display; the arrogance slipping away as she slumps in her seat like a wounded animal when chastised curtly by her mother. The others don’t care, seemingly used to the princess’ outbursts. 

But when Angella speaks, everyone listens. “Now that we can finally see ourselves a warless future, we need to come up with a restoration plan that will be both constructive and advantageous for Etheria as a whole. This includes the Horde. As of our last correspondence, Lord Hordak is already in the process of sending materials to the Meadowlands to rebuild Glenmar, Small Oak, and Alwyn.” 

“Can we really trust them?” Mermista speaks up, head propped up on the back of her hand. Casual and cool. “The Horde has never given us a reason to trust them at their word, what if they pull something after the wedding?” 

It’s a fair question; one none of the other princesses even dared to ask in all the time they’ve spent here despite it hanging thickly over their heads. Maybe it was out of courtesy to their host, the Queen of Brightmoon seeming like the type to value civility at the table. Beside her, Glimmer lets out a sigh of relief, happy that someone else said what they were all thinking. 

“Who’s to say we aren’t trying something now?” 

All eyes are on Adora, wide and shocked. “We have a contingency plan in place, as I’m sure the Alliance must have as well, should the treaty and or marriage contract be voided in any capacity. But don’t forget, the Horde came to you with this peace offering.” 

“And what? You’re expecting us to be grateful? Is that it?” Glimmer protests, finding her second wind. 

“The Horde started this war, and we’re supposed to bend over backwards and do a little song and dance for them just because they decided they had enough?” Mermista adds; a quick glance around reveals that many of the other princesses feel the same. 

Adora scoffs. “Isn’t it bad manners to look a gift horse in the mouth? Yes, the Horde started the war, no one is denying that fact, but we aren’t going to get anywhere if the Alliance refuses to see things objectively.” 

Perfuma takes the moment to stand and clap her hands together. “Let’s all just take a deep breath and calm ourselves.” She grabs Mermista’s hand next to her and begins to hum some quiet mantra. 

Mermista yanks her hand back. “Uh, okay, how about we not do that... Really though, when has meditating ever helped anything?" 

Perfuma is scandalized, her face taking on a reddish tint as she sputters a retort but is quickly overtaken by Spinnerella. Adora still has no clue what she and the other one—Netossa—even do. 

“As much as it pains me to say it, the Force Captain is right.” This gets a collective sneer going among the princesses. “We can’t forget the past, but we also can’t let it keep us from moving forward.” 

Castaspella is not impressed. “So, as soon as a single olive branch is offered, the Alliance is ready to surrender?” Her tone is controlled, but harsh. “Sounds a bit cowardly, Angella.” 

“Remind me again, Castaspella, where were you during the Battle of Galebreath?” Adora silently applauds the thinly-veiled jab; the tension between them is palpable, but that doesn’t stop Angella from striking again. “Oh, that’s right, Mystacor invoked it’s neutrality that same year, two months _after._ ” 

Castaspella doesn’t respond, her back straightening. “Haven’t we given up enough because of them? It’s unrealistic to accept this deal blindly without some pushback, especially when one of our own is to be closely tied with one of their officers. We lost too much to the Evil Horde and I say we rethink what we’re doing.” 

There’s an argument already brewing within the space between them, but Adora cuts in. “We call ourselves the Horde because we are named after our leader, admittedly an unfortunate result due to his equally unfortunate name—Horde, Hordak; Hordak, Horde. A branding mistake, in all honesty.” 

“A fucking _branding_ mistake?” Glimmer spits. At least she has the decency to stay seated this time, but her body vibrates, flurries of pink and purple light crackle around her frame. “That’s what you’re reducing decades of war to?” 

Adora tilts her head. “Yes. Did I stutter?" 

Glimmer growls, teeth bared. “How can you be this insufferable?” 

“Did you think this was going to be easy?” Adora crosses her arms. “I’m not here to play nice with anyone.” 

“And you shouldn’t,” Catra suddenly says, her first words in the last two hours. She turns to the rest of the alliance. “This is a business transaction and we’re still at war; you want fair play, go sit at the kids’ table.” 

It knocks their momentum off balance. Adora is still outnumbered, but with Catra’s defense of her, the scales start to tip. A flower appears in Perfuma’s hands, eyes closing to calm herself; Spinnerella and Netossa are nonplussed by it all; Castaspella pulls back the scowl adorning her lips; Frosta is still cold and unresponsive; Mermista sucks her teeth; and Bow reaches for Glimmer’s hand under the table while said sparkly runt mouths out the word ‘traitor’ beneath her breath. 

Catra remains impassive. And Adora fights back a self-satisfied smile. _Now, things are getting interesting._

“Our primary goal today is for all of us to come to an equal understanding of what peace between both sides will entail. I am not blind to the fact that it will be a long and arduous task to even come close to the level of peace we want, but regardless of where everyone stands with their own personal biases, in ten days, the marriage contract will be signed.” Angella is hard-faced and regal, resembling more like the queen Adora came to be apprehensive of during training simulations as a cadet. 

“Easy for you to say, Your Majesty,” Mermista says disparagingly. “Brightmoon lost a lot less than the rest of us. While we had our towns and villages sacked, Brightmoon had the Whispering Woods and its magic shields to protect it.” 

The Queen stills, lips pressed into a thin line as she takes on Mermista’s criticisms. Bow steps in, haughty and defensive. “Suffering isn’t a competition. It doesn’t matter.” 

Adora can taste the resentment in the air. “Oh but it does. After all, isn’t Salineas’ population down by, like what, twenty, _twenty-three percent?_ ” 

“Try a little higher,” Catra snorts, voice cracking. “Halfmoon is on the verge of a refugee problem and at least forty percent of those we take in are Salinean. The towns along the Golden Coast are overrun and we’ve had to take measures to move them further inward—do you have any idea how hard it is to teach seafaring folk how to live in the desert?” 

“Salineas aside, we have a more pressing matter that needs to be discussed.” Frosta interjects sternly. The seriousness that forms is too much for her childish face to handle. Layers of baby fat still clinging to her cheeks. 

She continues. “The Kingdom of Snows had seen a drop in imports in the Southern Reach; reports from Icegard, Fluriss, and Driftmoor, have seen an alarming number of bandit attacks along their usual trade routes. At first it was just bribery, but now there’s word of things getting physical, the locals fear it’ll only escalate into violence from there.”

A hologram of Etheria loads up over the table, purple and pink lines; it changes to a more in-depth map of the Kingdom of Snows’ southern towns and villages, just bordering the Meadowlands. A number of red X’s light up over the trade routes leading into the region. Driftmoor, the largest and hardest hit, is an egregious vulnerability and from what Adora knows of the snowlands, the villages in the surrounding areas have little in the way of both protection and supplies. 

How unfortunate. 

Angella, silently grateful to the young blue-haired queen for shifting attention to a more productive discussion, offers suggestions and opens up the floor for anyone else to take it. Soon, the suggestion of setting up checkpoints throughout the routes is made. With the aim of finding a pattern with these bandit attacks as well as providing a level of security for trades; Angella also agrees to allocating a portion of Brightmoon’s soldiers currently stationed in the Southern Reach to further serve this purpose. 

When the map scrolls outward, the table pieces representing the rest of the kingdoms stand out among the holographic terrains. 

Brightmoon, a crescent moon. Plumeria, an apple blossom flower. The Kingdom of Snows, a frozen fractal. Salineas, a mermaid. 

And Halfmoon? A lion’s head hovering over part of the desert and the Whispering Woods. 

The meeting continues and eventually ends with everyone coming to the silent agreement that the lack of restraint shown today was childish and irreprehensible. That it won’t happen again. Yet, this doesn’t stop the princesses from maneuvering the last of their discussions into having another chance at airing their gripes and grievances. Most of them being laid at Adora’s feet. Though, out of respect, she doesn’t rise to antagonize them again. 

She does, however, accept the battles. The Battle of Elberon. The Sacking of Rosewood. Her crowning achievements, her victories. 

Adora stays seated as the other princesses stand to leave. Best to put as much space between herself and the rest, can’t risk giving the enemy the chance to put her up against the wall. 

Together, they move as one. Hurriedly rushing to the doors with as much grace begetting their station. Castaspella leads them with talk of needing a spa day at Mystacor, in desperate need of a massage and dip in a pool. They agree feverishly, citing imaginary tensions like a bout of hysteria had overtaken them. Bow meanders along behind them, Perfuma slowing down to keep him company. Whereas Glimmer, his fiery other half, is busy stewing in her chair, about to be reprimanded by her mother once they had their privacy. It’s a shame Adora can’t be here to see it, would make for a good show to see Glimmer helplessly raked over the coals. But no, she winks at Glimmer and is on her way. 

In the great hall, Adora catches Bow’s eyes. Against his better judgement, he makes an attempt to come towards her. But the princesses bowl him over, gibbering about Mystacor, massages, and whatever else she can care less about, on their way to what Adora can only assume is to one of the gardens. He tries to get a word in, but is too polite, too sweet to hold his ground and gets swallowed by a flurry of soft pastel colors urging him onward. Adora shakes her head. She turns to the southernmost entrance to see a brown tail slipping through a pair of doors. 

Her brows furrow, feeling something calling her to seek it out. 

The path is familiar, the barracks off in the distance, half-shrouded in the curtain wall’s shadow. A stone block within the lush foliage that encompasses the rest of the estate. The cobblestone path Adora walks is marked with shrugs and pairs of dwarf trees of varying colors. Vibrant and eye-catching. Castle guards armored in thick white and silver plating, violet plumes swaying in the wind from the back of their restrictive helmets. Yet, with all this rich beauty, the glares those same guards give her as they walk past, remind Adora of the harshness beneath. 

There’s a quiet rustle behind her, then. She twists, bo staff bared, excitement building in her chest at the chance for some action.

Only to find Catra on the other end. 

“Do you always threaten girls with weapons?” Catra smirks, amused. 

“Only when they deserve it.” 

“Good to know.” 

Adora sheaths her staff back into its holster, gaze still fixed on Catra whose ears twitch for a brief moment before walking away to the barracks. Her tail swishes around, tip flicking about. Adora follows, speeding up to keep pace. 

Catra glances at her sidelong. “I ought to thank you for today; seeing the look on everyone’s faces during the meeting was hilarious.” 

Adora glances back. “It was my pleasure.” Beneath the glow of the sun, Catra’s tawny-colored fur shines like fire, her stripes like darkened embers. “My absolute pleasure.” 

The off-duty guards lingering about the barracks’ stand at attention at their arrival, saluting. Their uniforms lack any special denominations; shirts, pants, and work boots all in the same lavender color. Rookies. 

“Soldiers! We have a guest joining us today.” She can see the gears turning: their grim faces scowl, lips thinning into hard lines, eyes searching for some truth in the stories they had heard of the fabled Force Captain. Footmen are such gossips. “Instead of our usual regiment, we’re going to be sparring—pair up!” 

The guards do as they’re told, pairing off with the closest person next to them. Catra commands a pair to take to the center of the square while the others wait for their turn along the perimeter. She then leads Adora to a bench off to the side while the pair begin to exchange blows. 

Adora is skeptical. There isn’t much to expect from Brightmoon’s guards; hand-to-hand combat being a foreign concept to the mostly magic reliant royals. Soldiers taking up the banner in their honor were useless and ill-equipped in battle, their strength wholly dependent on having large enough numbers to overwhelm. 

But the rookies do well. These aren’t specialists by any stretch, just castle guards in-training, but there is enough that Adora can admire. Especially with the Rebellion leaving so little to appreciate. One-half of the pair, the heaviest of the two, mostly strikes; his partner, smaller and faster, works to engage in an alternating series of joint locks and chokeholds. Yet, what intrigues Adora the most is how neither of them are afraid to dig their knees into the dirt for leverage and pry open an opportunity. Tactics a more rigidly disciplined fighter would condemn outright. Had this been a real fight, the shortest would have decimated his partner’s knees, but not without sustaining a broken rib and a damaged liver. 

Adora eyes Catra. “You know, it’s a shame that your skills are being wasted on training castle guards who have never and won’t ever see the battlefield.” Catra’s ears twitch, but she doesn’t turn to face her, calling out for another pair to take center stage instead. “You would have done well with the Horde.” 

“War’s over, Captain. There’s no need for a sales pitch.” 

Adora tilts her head. “Can you blame me?” 

Tossing her head back, Catra lets out a short laugh. “Cute. But shouldn’t you be keeping your eyes on Sparkles?” 

“Surveying one’s option before committing is a hallmark of good planning; I never go into battle without doing so.” 

This gets Catra to turn and something inside Adora stirs at the sight. Mismatched eyes shining bright; a mischievous gleam with the faintest whispers of a smile. 

She calls for all of them to take to the square, six feet apart from each other, five minutes to spar. Keeping them occupied, and more importantly, distracted. 

Adora leans forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “Brightmoon has relied on three different factors to serve as its line of defense: The Whispering Woods, magic shields, and a princess to train its guards when its own wasn’t skilled enough to do it herself.” 

Catra crosses her legs. “Like I said before, I do it as a personal favor to the queen and princess. Making sure their castle is well-guarded keeps Halfmoon in the back of their minds.” 

“But you can only play into Angella and Micah’s paranoia for so long,” Adora says. “And now that we’re on the verge of ending the war, they won’t have a good enough reason to keep you so close. Won’t need to.” 

“Then what do you propose?” 

“Allyship—the princesses are hostile; enough was said at today’s meeting for me to know that my presence at the table holds less value than a punching bag. I can’t imagine they treat you any better.” 

“Is this how you play cards? Going for broke and hoping that you’ll win?” Catra’s tone is light, somewhat playful. 

Adora grins. _She’s interested._ “I’m more of a chess player.” 

A hum. “And how’s that going for you?” 

“Well, the game hasn’t started yet.” Adora sits back and watches the rookies. “I’m still looking for the other pieces to my set. All I’ve got is the king.” 

Catra‘s tail swishes. “I’m not about to get into bed with someone I barely know without some assurances, Captain.” 

Adora meets her eyes, brow raised. “Such as?” 

“That when I buck, you don’t fight me; that I won’t be left tangled in the sheets once you’ve had your fill—” Catra leans forward, gaze briefly flicking towards Adora’s mouth. “—I have no intention of being ridden hard and put away wet.” 

“Has that happened before?” She asks, curious. 

“No. And I don’t intend for it to start now.” 

Catra whistles for the guards to line up, single-file, for a run around the castle. They head off into a light jog. She turns to Adora. “Meet me tonight in the rock garden by the stables for your answer.” 

She’s gone before there’s a response. Not that Adora minds, finding herself staring after her. Thinking. Wondering. All that potential wasted on guards who will only grow sluggish and comfortable behind their cushy shields and woods once their instructor is gone. 

Bow finds her just as she returns to the castle. He’s a lot more amenable now that he’s away from Glimmer and the other princesses. 

But he’s still nervous. “Hey, uh, I figured I’d find you coming from the barracks.” 

Adora raises a brow. “Any particular reason why?” 

Bow shrugs. “Nothing. Just that, you seem like the type to prefer being with soldiers than the rest of us in the castle.” 

Adora laughs, turning to the barracks. “Yeah, well, soldiers I understand.” She turns back to the castle. “Princesses? Don’t think I ever will.” 

He accompanies her back to the castle where Adora retires to her room for a while until supper. At Angella’s request, she meets with Perfuma and Mermista again. Briefly. All to confirm that, yes, Perfuma is still a bleeding-heart flower child who’s all petals and no thorns, and she can’t stand being alone with Mermista for more than a minute. Afterwards, Adora is invited to a small intimate dinner with the royal family. She puts on her best uniformed face and punctuates her contributions to the evening with well-placed smiles that are returned in kind while Glimmer ignores them all and only answers when spoken to. Across the table, Glimmer glowers, as civilly as she can within her parents’ presence. 

Naturally, when Micah doesn’t rise to meet Shadow Weaver’s jabs with his usual animosity, Adora becomes suspicious. And it comes to a head when she is about to leave the dining hall, desserts finished and taken away, and Angella asks to speak to her for a moment. 

They move to an empty room down the hall, lightly furnished but lacking in throw pillows. Angella doesn’t hesitate to begin once the door is closed. “I’ll make this light; time is of the essence and I know that seeing this whole arrangement through is important to the Horde.” 

Adora watches; that queenly mask slipping. “This arrangement is just as important to the Alliance too.” 

“Yes, but I stand to lose something more personal to me than my kingdom.” Angella folds her hands. “Whenever I thought about the war, about its end, my daughter walking into the lion’s den was never a part of it.” 

“Better the lion’s den than to her death, Your Majesty.” 

Angella looks away. “I’ve fought with the Horde far longer than you have been alive, Captain, so forgive me for not believing there to be much of a difference between the two.” 

"The princesses want blood and they have no issue with seeing mine run; so, forgive me when I don’t put much stock into lions when I’m a hair’s breadth away from the wolves and their jaws.” 

“There’s no changing your mind, is there?” 

Adora shakes her head. “I’m only thinking of what’s best for Etheria.” 

“You are too young to be doing this, practically a child.” 

“I haven’t been a child for years, Your Majesty.” 

Angella nods a curt goodbye, leaving the room quickly. And if Adora didn’t know any better, she could’ve sworn the queen flew. 

Hanging from the ceiling of the entrance hall, is a massive chandelier. It’s the first thing guests see when they enter, gaudy and irredeemably obnoxious. There are too many crystals. Too much gold. It lights up the entire room, reaching outward into the adjoining halls, keeping the darkness away to the farthest reaches. The staircase winds around it in a spiral, and as Adora climbs, she watches the railing cast long harsh shadows across the steps and over the walls. 

Waiting, beckoning.

Adora finds Shadow Weaver among them, standing beside a side door with her hands clasped together in front of her. 

She makes a bid to make fun, the sorceress is rarely seen without a book or chalice, but wisely thinks against it. Her green eyes are soft, but demanding; the red stone bejeweling her circlet is faint in the dark. She circles her finger in the air, arcane symbols coming to life at her call in a whitish-blue glow, and with a snap they disperse into the air around them. 

A soundproofing spell. 

She steps outside, and Adora follows. The chilly Brightmoon air is harsh against the skin of her nose. “Day two, and they’re still resistant to the idea; Angella is trying to get me to see reason and pick someone else.” 

Shadow Weaver eyes her patiently, looking calm and serene in the fading sunlight. “You can’t fault her for that; she’s only trying to protect her daughter. You would too in her position.” 

Adora jerks her head. “Luckily for us, I’m not.” A bitter laugh builds at the back of her throat. “How Brightmoon has managed to keep its seat at the head of the table is beyond me.” 

“Money; next to power and death, nothing else is absolute in this life.” They walk for a few moments, better to keep on the move than to wait and be seen. “The castle was built strategically with the Whispering Woods and it’s close proximity to Mystacor in mind.” 

Adora scoffs. “The fate of Etheria is at stake and we’re wasting time because she doesn’t want her little bird to leave the nest.” 

“She lost her firstborn to butterfly fever; she’s not looking to lose another, especially when this one has half the magical power of the first.” 

“There has to be another way to do this, they are too attached to Glimmer as she is to them.” 

“This is all we have, Adora,” Shadow Weaver says. “If there was another option to look at, Lord Hordak and I would have considered it.” 

“And what of Brother Prime? What did he say about this?” She asks. 

“Before we left the Fright Zone, Hordak received a message saying that he agreed.” 

Adora doesn’t say anything else. There’s a scowl beneath the veil mask, even if she can’t see it. “I spoke to Princess Catra, earlier. She’s amenable.” 

Shadow Weaver squints, moving closer to the edge of the wall. “Fraternizing with an uncontrollable variable puts us all at risk.” 

Adora leans over a parapet, folding her arms over the stone. The sky is beautiful over Brightmoon, shades of blue and purple. The sun sets slowly over the horizon, streaks of orange and yellow slashing through the clouds as it sets over the treetops of the Whispering Woods. The Fright Zone doesn’t have a view like this, all red skies, brown clouds, and smog. 

“I am doing what you asked me to: a little tact, and a little diplomacy, goes a long way.” Adora feels the hair on the back of her neck stand. “Today’s meeting with the princesses was a disaster; I can’t work in the Horde’s best interests if I’m being hounded from all sides during negotiations.” 

A beat. “So instead of coming to me first, you run off and make some harebrained decision, because you couldn’t handle a few unruly princesses nipping at your heel?” 

“I resent that.”

“I do not care.”

“This is an opportunity for us to gain some allies!” 

“How are you so sure you can trust this... Catra.” There is no warmth in Shadow Weaver’s words. “Magicats can’t be trusted.” 

Adora perks up. “Is that what she is?” 

Shadow Weaver glares. “ _Adora_.” 

“I only trust that Halfmoon’s allegiance to Brightmoon is shaky; with her on my side, I’ll be able to gain more ground during meetings.”

“It would behoove you to keep this under control.” A pointed finger curls around Adora’s ear, pushing back a stray strand of hair. “I will not protect you, should this fall apart. Understand?”

Adora nods. “Yes, Shadow Weaver.”


	3. Chapter 3

Adora has never liked the Whispering Woods.

Preferring instead the simplicity and attractiveness of the many valleys and plains of the Meadowlands. Bright and colorful under the sunlight; soft-looking herd animals were known to flock to the region during spring to raise their young. A common sight to see a doe rear her fawn with a gentle tap of the snout to their behind, teaching it to walk instead of stumble. From what Shadow Weaver and others have said, she was found on the banks of the Jade Rill; a newborn tightly wrapped in a silk blanket on the shores of a small out of the way stream south of Plumeria. To this day, Adora still remembers the air being sweet with the scent of flowers.

The Whispering Woods are different. It is a dark, strange place. Acres of old forest untouched and untamed for thousands of years. Smelling of moist earth and old spice. There are no valleys and plains here, nothing colorful or bright; flowers are rarely seen blossoming within its gnarled groves. Soft-looking animals looking to birth and raise their young do well to steer clear. A wood of ornery hemlock trees armored in grey-green needles, of robust oaks, of hardened pines as old as Etheria itself. Thick purplish trunks as rough as a rhino’s backside crowd close together while twisted branches weave a dense, grotesque canopy overhead and misshapen roots mangled and horrid wrestle beneath the soil. The leaves dappled with circular markings resembling eyes flutter loosely in the howling wind; always watching, always judging. The Whispering Woods is a place of brooding silence and enlivened shadows birthed by godless magic.

Magic that actively works against the Horde, as if the woods were sentient and capable of thought, choosing to believe them to be the enemy.

Despite having been anointed in oils and named under a shower of smokeberry wine, a holdover, and one of the very few from Shadow Weaver’s Elven beliefs, Adora is a staunch believer in practicality. What she can see, smell, touch, and feel, she values. The weight of her staff and the leather wrappings of the handle she trusts. Inexplicably. Magic is abstract and volatile, and what little she has buried beneath her skin, what Shadow Weaver has tried fruitlessly to foster and nurture, is dead and useless. No stronger and material than a newborn whipping absent forms in the air with their restless, fidgety hands.

For her sake, Shadow Weaver took great strides in curbing the Horde’s “uncreative” utilitarian teachings and, by proxy, skepticism, into something more fitting for their goals. Frequently using the Whispering Woods as evidence of magic’s belonging within their world. The woods grow slowly, steadily in territory each year, accumulating two-point-seven acres of growth in the span of three decades. Forming the impenetrable shield wall that protects Castle Brightmoon from any possible invasion.

“Challenging your ideals is healthy and necessary for a well-rounded mind,” Shadow Weaver once said after catching a nine-year-old Adora struggling to grasp the purpose of the old book in her hands, it’s pages worn and rough against her fingers. And after much stern prodding and threats, Adora finally came to the realization that Shadow Weaver’s insistence was more on the basis of her understanding the actual act of reading the book, instead of the content between its covers. How a little regarded title, _Lies of the First Ones_ , matters more in its existence than the erroneous claims it speculates on the founding of the kingdoms. And while Adora has come to appreciate challenges, especially amid a war sorely lacking any, she isn’t a fan of wasting time.

A fact that rings true with every passing minute and continues to each and every time she meets her reflection in the screen of her dataphone. After the first hour, Adora resigned to giving the wily Magicat the benefit of the doubt: maybe she was pulled away to her training duties and lost track of time, maybe she was attending an impromptu meeting thrown by the princesses somewhere hidden within the castle. But by the second, her generosity starts to wane. And now, bordering on the third, well into the night, her blood boils.

Three hours and fifteen minutes later, her resolve fails. Balling her hands into fists at her sides, Adora, half-tempted to smash the small, jagged stones beneath the bottom of her boots and upturn the carefully maintained shrubs by their roots, stalks out of the rock garden. Growling when a stray branch on one of said shrubs by the entrance snags on her pants. Well past after midnight, she hurries. The castle grounds are incredibly dark and while the guards patrolling the estate may be easy to maneuver around, the chest lights affixed to their breastplates give them away easily, Adora still worries for her blind spot: the windows.

Lined along each wall of the castle is a series of windows pointing in every direction, giving a complete 360 degree view of the estate, and by extension, makes it very easy for an insomniac royal or a nosy servant to catch her in the act.

Adora manages to sneak her way to the courtyard, and after seven minutes of hiding behind a pair of orange dwarf trees, she heads for her carriage, knocking on the door to the driver’s cabin. And after a brief moment, the door unlocks with a click and slides open to reveal an excited Kyle. His fluffy, sandy-blonde hair a mess and his shirt ruined by maroon-colored stains.

Kyle and Rogelio are in the middle of a midnight snack, something Kyle managed to procure from one of the nicer and non-fearful cooks in the kitchen. A delicious smelling dish made of fried tenderloin slices accompanied by shredded cabbage, a pair of tomato wedges, and a small sauce cup filled with a maroon, almost brown sauce matching the stains on Kyle’s shirt. Rogelio politely grunts, offering a strip of meat to Adora, who kindly refuses with a shake of her head.

“You sure?” Kyle asks, eagerly shoving a forkful of cabbage into his mouth, “It’s really good! Tonkatsu, I think they called it.”

She shakes her head again, content to rest on the couch and throw an arm over her eyes. “What do you think of the princesses?” There’s nervous clinking of utensils and some glasses and even a quiet argument over the last slice of tenderloin before she continues, more serious. “Shadow Weaver’s breathing down my neck about making what she thinks is the right choice, I could use a second opinion.”

“Uh… I like Perfuma.” Kyle says. “She’s nice, and um, pretty. I guess?”

“Rogelio?”

She raises her arm to peek at the large lizard, his Caligari accent is thick and is sometimes hard to understand without being able to read his lips. “I like the cat one.”

Adora frowns but is quick to make sure they don’t see it. “How do you know she’s a princess? She’s not even in the running.”

“She is familiar.” Rogelio admits. It takes a moment for him to find the right words; he came to talk late in life and his early years spent in a rundown orphanage in the swamps before being taken in by the Horde only lengthened the struggle. His size and natural strength, bordering on brutish, is what kept him among their ranks as a valued cadet. But he finds the words eventually, Kyle encouraging him with a gentle smile.

“Magicats, only ones with kingdom and power,” Rogelio adds, his porcelain bowl suddenly too small in his scaled hands. “No other hybrids have that. Ever did. Magicats strong, ancient peoples.”

Kyle applauds him with a praising hand to his forearm. Rogelio blushes at the touch before shying away with a little shimmy, resuming to eat his meal with renewed vigor. Adora lets them be, knowing very well when she’s suddenly become a third-wheel intruding on an intimate moment. Living in a barrack with twelve other cadets in one room taught her this well and early.

Thankfully, Force Captains are supplied with their own private rooms. Or, private _enough_.

Slipping in unseen, she makes careful work of not letting whatever servants still bumbling about in the kitchens aware of her presence. And as far as she can gather, the number of guards on patrol within the castle’s walls is light. A small, manageable team. Though that doesn’t stop Adora from jumping from the shadowy corners of one alcove to the next in order to keep hidden. Nor does it help her feel the slightest bit safe when she spends close to ten minutes crouched on the balls of her feet against the legs of a marble statue for some regal Brightmoon ancestor; worsened only by the inane chit-chat she is forced to listen to from the guards lounging about on the other side:

They gossip about their general’s frequent visits to Mystacor, believing a woman, probably a sorceress in attendance at the Sorcerers Guild to be the cause.

Then there is talk about an upcoming tournament to celebrate—as they put it—the hellish marriage of their sweet princess and the Horde’s bastard. “I’m telling you that ice brat looks like a ringer,” one of them says with glee, “got at least two-fifty on her making it to the semis.”

Adora stifles a snort.

Lastly, the most numbing of their intelligent discussions: wishful hoping of some famous theatre star, named Flutterina of all things, to perform her latest production at the wedding. While also questioning if the crown had enough in its coffers to pay for it, citing rumors that the actress had expensive tastes and was worth a fortune.

Their talk continues with next to nothing of value to note, beyond a stray comment calling the arranged marriage contract a bullshit piece of paper and hoping that all Hordesmen would do the world a favor and fall on their swords. Soon, at the behest of another, an older and stricter guard of a higher rank, the chatty trio disperse in opposite directions. Armor clanking loudly in the cavernous room as they rush. Adora hurries to the great hall and begins her laborious climb up the grand staircase. Shadows casted from the railings in the face of the dimly lit chandelier provide the slightest bit of cover for her to cling to, she flinches at the thudding echo of her boots against the marble steps.

Halfway up to her floor, she breathes a sigh of relief against the railing. Silently cursing whatever idiot architect came up with the castle’s inefficient design. A few more steps and Adora is suddenly throwing herself behind a pillar at the sound of a high-pitched squeal. Had I been caught? She thinks worriedly. And by who? A guard, a servant, or one of the visiting princesses? A single bead of sweat trickles down her temple as she dares to peek around the pillar, in search of the source of the noise.

Her lips pull into a frown. _You have got to be fucking kidding me._

It’s Bow and Glimmer.

Out of sight, she lightly bangs the back of her head on the limestone. Fucking hell.

From her spot, she can see them at the top of the next flight of stairs, on the fourth floor—home to the royal family’s private quarters. Glimmer, the more handsy of the two, desperately paws at Bow between giggles and whispered kisses. Grasping at the front of his shirt while Bow tries to stay levelheaded and calm, despite having both hands firmly on the princess’ hips, holding her as close to him as possible. He shushes her, though it comes out weak and legless between tired and exasperated chuckles. Murmurs of _the guards_ this, and _don’t wanna get caught_ that, and _your parents might hear_.

Glimmer stands on her toes to nip at his neck, palms flattening against his front to better feel his chest through the fabric. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Glim, please, it’s late. We need to go to bed.”

She lifts her head to look at him, “But we already did.” Scandalized, Bow blushes madly. “Come to my room for a little bit, I won’t keep you long.”

“You know we can’t, it’s too risky, especially with everything going on.” Glimmer huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. The corner of Bow’s lips twitch, but he apologizes immediately. Running his hands up and down her tanned arms. “Hey, I know it sucks to hear but it’ll be over soon and we’ll… we’ll be okay. Just give it a little more time.”

“You promise?” Glimmer asks.

“I do,” he swears. “I promise.”

Bow’s smile spreads, he presses a reassuring kiss to Glimmer’s forehead to soothe her doubts and worries before the clanking of armor pulls them out of their bubble.

Holding hands, they rush down the hall and out of sight as a guard crosses the hall, missing them. Much like the older one stalking about the grounds and whipping the others into attention, this guard is tall and heavy with thick plates of silver armor and a lilac sash wrapped around their torso. Not a general, or a lieutenant. But a sergeant maybe.

A pair of guards suddenly round the corner from the other side of the hall, passing by her bedroom door and heading towards her direction. Stretching herself to fit within the pillar’s shadow, Adora is effectively trapped against the limestone. But by a stroke of luck, the guards pass, her presence concealed and safe. The guard at the top of the stairs, rigid and observing, leaves their post to walk down another hallway. For the moment, Adora is alone. Yet, instead of heading to her room, she climbs the steps.

Against all her training, honed and mastered dutifully in the Fright Zone and on the battlefield, she stands in the open air of the hall. Where she waits on the half-assed assumption that Bow would soon reveal himself and return to his room downstairs.

She doesn’t have to wait long, however.

Bow exits Glimmer’s room quietly; still dressed in his day clothes, his shirt is wrinkled against his chest and slightly torn around the collar, hickeys mark one side of his neck, from collarbone to just below the shell of his ear—telltale remnants of his tryst with Glimmer. And the sight of Adora standing in the middle of the corridor leaves him stunned, his hand hovering over the golden doors holding the princess’ bedroom ajar. Through the sliver, Adora can see the walls inside are painted in the same soft lilac shade as the rest of the castle, a number of heart shaped lights hang from the ceiling, a plush violet rug in the shape of a five-pointed star, and most of all, she can see Glimmer’s sleeping form in the mirror on the dresser.

Still dressed in her clothes from earlier, she looks peaceful. Far better than the harsh scowl she constantly greeted Adora with.

Following her gaze, and then moved by a sudden bout of jealousy, Bow closes the door. A bit more forceful than necessary, but no one stirs.

His normally sweet and resigned face shifts. “Force Captain Adora,” he says, voice distant and formal. Suspicious. “What are you doing here?”

Adora jerks her chin to the golden pair of doors. “I could ask you the same thing, but I bet your night was far more interesting than mine.” There is no response, no quick retort to deny the truth and avoid the obvious blush coloring his cheeks. Yet, he refuses outright, red face and all. “I didn’t know the princess had a boyfriend; is polygamy common in Brightmoon?”

“No.” He isn’t amused.

“Ah, well,” she sucks in a small breath, “this might make the wedding awkward.”

Bow frowns. “We’re not dating, so you have nothing to worry about. You still get to marry her.”

“Right,” Adora replies, strained. He makes it seem like Adora actually wanted this. As if Adora was elated and jumped for joy when Hordak called her into the throne room to declare that she was the Horde’s chosen. She wasn’t. She wanted to win through battle and decorate her jacket with badges of her victory. But at Shadow Weaver’s suggestion, she thanked her lord and accepted the mission with a firm nod and easy smile.

“We need to go to our rooms before the guards finds us,” Bow says. His stern eyes goading her to drop the topic and take the first step down the stairs. “If they do, they’ll alert the king and queen, and I don’t think they’ll be too keen knowing you were up here.”

“Ditto.” His eyes narrow, but Adora still gets her jab in. She moves to the top of the stairs but Bow grabs at her wrist. She spins to face him, a hand reaching for her staff. He raises a brow at her but loosens his grip, then lets go. He moves behind a pillar, a finger to his lips, before pointing at the guards moving about at the bottom of the stairs. With a jut of his chin, he tells her to follow him quickly around the staircase and to an empty corner. He puts his hand to the wall, pushing in one of the lilac stones like pressing a button. The wall comes to life with magic tracing around the shape of a door before it disappears with a shimmer.

“Come,” Bow urges, panicked as a round of heavy footsteps ring closely. “This is the quickest and surest way around them.” Adora sighs, still apprehensive about walking into a secret passage with an enemy, but follows him anyways, sure that she can take the archer. Stepping inside quickly, the stones come together to fill the doorway with a rumble. When Adora puts a hand to the wall, even rapping her knuckles against it to test that yes, it is solid, the wall doesn’t change.

“To go out back that way you’ll need to know where the right stone is. But you won’t. And I won’t tell you.”

“Good, it’d be an insult if you did.” Adora says.

“You still didn’t explain your reason for being out so late.” Bow claps twice and the passageway lights up. A tight fit with only room for the metal staircase and then some, the walls decorated in old fresco paintings depicting a battle. The eyes of the soldiers, their horses, and their leaders, and enemies, illuminate the way. “Have to assume the worst if you don’t.”

“I was just on my way back from visiting my carriage drivers.” He believes her instantly, and that’s all that matters. “I was going to head straight to my room, but then I got distracted by you and Glimmer.”

Bow’s lips tighten. “How much did you see?”

“Eh, enough.” Adora shrugs her shoulders, a gesture far too casual for his liking. “Enough to wonder if sneaking around the castle and getting all handsy with the princess is usual. I don’t mind it; I just don’t like being kept in the dark.”

His brows furrow. Giving Adora a disbelieving stare. Their footsteps echo, creaking against rusted steps of the stairs. “Glimmer, and the other princesses, may find this hard to believe, but the Horde isn’t as bad as everyone thinks. We were on opposite sides of war and I knew there was going to be a natural inclination to believe that I’m evil. But I’m not, I just want what’s best for Etheria and this is it.”

“I don’t condone what they did in the war room, it was childish and completely out of line. But you also have to understand that it’ll take some time for them to trust you.” Bow reminds her.

“You’re right, you’re right, you do know them better than I do,” she says, wiping her hands against her trousers of the dust once reaching their floor. “If only things were easier, you know? Or at least, maybe different. Anything would be smoother than this.”

Bow puts his hand to the wall where it opens for them. Peeking outside, he waits a moment as he sees the cape of guard billowing in front of them. Calling for Adora to follow once the guard had turned and left down the stairs. It’s safer here. The tension in his shoulders is noticeably lighter, his face more relaxed.

“I don’t think you’re evil, or even a bad person, just a little hard to know.” His eyes, crested with sleep at the edges above a half smile on his tired face, find hers at the crossroad of two hallways pointing in opposite directions, she can see in him the same person who greeted her with a warm smile, albeit anxiously, the one that tried to engage her after that failure of a meeting. She likes this Bow.

Adora nods, and unsure of what to say next, turns away first. Heading down one end of the hall to her room. She can feel his eyes on her back as she walks, but soon its gone and when she looks back, she only catches a glimpse of his boot before he closes his door.

Suddenly feeling her own exhaustion take over now that her nightly adventure through the castle is over, she rushes to her room, using what little energy she has left to pump her legs. The sound of the heavy golden doors sliding against the linoleum as she enters is music to her ears. But as soon as she closes the door behind her, tiredly rubbing the back of her neck, she meets a pair of mismatched eyes in the darkness. Then, the lamp on the nightstand flicks on.

_“Hey Adora.”_

Lounging amid the soft cotton sheets of her bed, is Catra. The deep red of her clothes is a stark contrast to the orchid colored covers; her broad collar glints faintly in the dim lighting, a simple design of metal and gold with rubies declaring her royal status. The waistband, militant and rough, is heavy with bronze chains. Curled up like a panther, arm lying over the curve of a hip, her tail swishes back and forth lazily, expectantly, _ready._

“You!” Adora bites harshly, “You have some nerve!”

The Magicat rolls her eyes. “Unless you’re looking to challenge me, I’d suggest you don’t bare your teeth at me,” she says, the mischievous tilt to her tone sends a shiver up Adora’s spine. “It’s a sign of aggression in Magicat culture, but you already knew that didn’t you?”

She waves Adora’s datapad in the air, the screen and its casing scuffed up with scratch marks.

“We had a deal Catra but as far as I’m concerned, it’s off.” Catra barks a laugh and a vein begins to throb down the center of Adora’s forehead. Her eyes flicker to the shadows coiled around the corners of the room.

“I’m assuming you’ve never had to work with someone who wasn’t your subordinate or superior, right?”

Adora crosses her arms. “And I’m assuming you never had to interact with someone without needing to play games.”

“Touché,” Catra agrees. She stretches her arms over her head then, until there’s a satisfying _crack_ from her shoulder blades. She saunters over to the minibar and pulls a bottle of chilled summerwine that wasn’t there before. She pours them two glasses and hands one to Adora, shoving it into her chest to accept it. Adora stares at the amber drink with a raised brow.

“Nicked it from the wine cellar, and I think I saw your handler stalking around down there too,” Catra says. She sits at the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and taking a sip. “But that’s not what I’m here to talk about: you need to apologize to the princesses.”

“You’re out of your damn mind,” Adora says grimly.

“And you’re not on neutral territory,” Catra swirls her wine. “They want your head on a swivel, and with how combative the Horde is, I doubt you’ll take it lying down.” She puts the glass down. “The war continues, and chances are neither side will stop until the other is wiped off the face of the earth. Either war, Captain, I intend for my kingdom to survive it all, and if Halfmoon will have to reign over the ashes, then so be it.”

“So why not sow dissent between us if your aim is to take over?”

“I thought about it,” she admits. “But then you came to me with an offer for allyship and I changed my mind.”

Adora narrows her eyes. “Any particular reason why?”

“Ghoulish overkill, for one; I mean honestly when do lions ever kill savagely?”

Adora taps a finger against her glass. “And two?”

“When you're fresh meat, kill and throw them something fresher—thanks to you, I won’t have to get my claws dirty.” Catra takes another sip, smirking at the look on Adora’s face.

Adora glances at the window, she walks over and puts her glass down on the windowsill, the rock garden in the distance. “That’s a very fine line to be walking, Catra. I hoped our meeting wouldn’t be as much of a flop as the Alliance’s, but now I don’t know what to make of it.”

Catra’s bicolored eyes narrow. “For starters, this _isn’t_ a meeting, Captain. This is me _telling_ _you_ what needs to be done in order for either of us to get anywhere; maneuvering this closely around the princesses requires a soft touch.”

“Like letting the Alliance get away with crippling Halfmoon?” She picks up her glass; Catra’s jaw clenches in its reflection.

“My grandmother was always adamant about Halfmoon being the next superpower,” Catra says ruefully. “But then the Horde blew through our defenses in the Southeastern Corridor and her attention was pulled elsewhere. Villages were being razed and all that.”

Adora turns around then. “And the Alliance took the opportunity to send in thousands of its soldiers to help defend the capital, or so they said.” She must admit, the summerwine tastes a little bitter. “They were an occupying force and in return for their services, Halfmoon had to use a portion of its taxes to keep them there while the military recovered.”

But Halfmoon’s military never did. With the money being pulled in every direction the military dwindled without the necessary funds and now, with the Whispering Woods have grown enough to cover that end of the kingdom, most of Halfmoon’s forces are stationed in the desert half. Arguably the most protected and vulnerable part of the kingdom: if it isn’t the Horde trying to bat down its doors, it’s bandits and raiders from the Crimson Wastes.

Adora has seen several articles, opinion pieces mostly, claiming the Alliance’s spaying of Halfmoon’s military was a ploy to keep the kingdom shackled, unable to leave, or worse: join the Horde.

“Whether it’s paranoia or having the foresight to anticipate another enemy on their hands, Angella isn’t close to budging.”

“It’s a smart move on their part, but they’re sitting on a powder keg, just waiting to be lit. And you want the Horde to be the one to light that match, for what? To be seen on the defensive when Halfmoon makes a move?”

Catra nods. “Internationally, moving on the defensive is the best position to be in.”

“I suppose, no one wants to be seen as the aggressor,” Adora says, taking another sip of wine, finding it suddenly taste sweet. “But now that you’ve told me everything, enough to be complicit—” she sits at the other edge of the bed, wine forgotten at the window. “—and dare I say, _treasonous_ , what’s to stop me from leaving you out to dry?”

“Because, _King_ , you’re not the only one on the board.” Catra licks her lips. “And you’re eager to know how this game is going to go, more so than you should. Not like you’ll care all that much once it starts.”

“And exactly when do we get to play? Since you’re the one calling all the shots.”

Catra inches closer. “In the morning: you’ll go to the stables first thing at sunrise, talk to the stablemaster about taking a ride around the woods, Glimmer made mention of it already so you won’t have any issue with him refusing you.”

“And what of the other princesses?” Adora’s eyes flicker, half-lidden. Suddenly tired of talking about princesses. “With them around, apologizing won’t be easy. Mermista and Frosta are liable to try and separate me from the group and execute me behind a bush.”

“Probably. But luckily for you, they and Perfuma will be heading back to their kingdoms after breakfast. Spinnerella, Netossa, and Castaspella will be in Thaymor setting up the festivities for the wedding.”

“So soon? The contract hasn’t even been signed.”

“No, but why waste time dancing around the inevitable? All roads lead to Glimmer, after all.”

“I caught her sneaking back to her room; Bow was with her.” Adora says, tired of talking about Glimmer too.

“They’re not as subtle as they think they are,” Catra pulls away and Adora follows. “A pair of blushing virgins.”

“I asked if polygamy was customary in Brightmoon.” A slow smile spreads across Catra’s face; Adora’s sure it mirrors her own, “he said no, I think I offended him.”

“Bow’s been in love with Glimmer since we were children. When Glimmer was just learning how to control her magic, he would put on armor and play her training dummy. There isn’t an angry bone in his body, unless when it concerns her.”

“Cute. But with how overprotective the king and queen are, I doubt they’d be so understanding if they were to find out their ward spends the better part of his night in their daughter’s bedroom. Sounds like good leverage.”

Catra shakes her head. “Leverage is only good when it’s beneficial.” Her back hits the bed, and she puts a hand to Adora’s chest. “Befriending Bow will make the marriage easier to deal with; we keep their secret and he’ll provide us the in we need.”

“So many secrets to keep, theirs, yours, ours—but I haven’t told you any of mine though.”

“And you won’t, you’re too smart for that, Captain,” the Magicat’s grin is sharp. “I’ll let you keep a few secrets, for now.”

“Just a few? How generous of you.” Adora grins, quietly wondering if Catra’s fangs were as deadly as they looked.

Adora moves slowly, pulling off a boot and toeing the other one off before being pulled further up the bed where she hovers on hands and knees. In the soft glow of the dim lighting, Catra looks every bit like the predators she had been warned about in her Bestiary Studies classes: quiet and patient, eyes hungry and ambitious; caution is still both warranted and necessary. “But I think you have a few more you’re not telling me.”

Catra rises from the bed and meets her in the middle. A hair’s breadth away. “Another time. As of right now, you need to get ready for bed.”

“I am ready.” Adora breathes, moving to close the distance. But Catra pushes her face away.

“You know what I meant,” she says. “Shower and rest up, you’ll need it for all the groveling you’re going to be doing.”

Adora grimaces at that. Already feeling bile bubbling up her throat. Rolling her eyes with a groan, she slips off the bed and moves to her travel bag to grab her things. “Will you still be here when I’m done?” Adora asks, throwing her Horde-issue sleep clothes over an arm. “It’s late, might as well stay the night or at least until sunrise.”

Catra shakes her head. “I’ll be gone before you know it.”

“In Ancient Scorpioni tradition, it was common for prisoners to be flayed as a form of torture,” she continues, reaching for her glass forgotten on the nightstand. “The reasoning being that a well-dressed man has too many secrets, a naked man will still hold on to a few, but a flayed man has none.”

Halfway to the bathroom, Adora stops. “I’m well aware of their practices.”

“I don’t want to skin you, obviously, but I also don’t want you dressed either; you can keep your secrets, Adora, but not this one.”

Adora lets out a breath. The Magicat’s eyes trained on her every movement, pupils rounded from slits to hardened spheres, deep enough to drown in. She peels off her precious red jacket, where it drops to the floor, along with her sleep clothes. Pulling her shirt over her head, she feels a rush of cool air hit her exposed skin. She flexes her arms, catching the way Catra’s tail has now curled around her waist, tip playing with the chains on her waistband.

“All of it.”

Adora smirks, undoing her belt. “As you wish.”


End file.
